‘I did not even need to penetrate these maidens with my tongue to bring forth their internal sweats,’ the younger Gael said, with a nod that referred to the man who was his uncle or his father, ‘for my tongue work was so rapid, playing on the edges of them, that they had already fainted in a foamy joy, and were quite buoyant and eclipsed with a rosy colour on the cheeks of their arses that remained for three whole nights. From then on, they gave me the name of Very Delicious Harp, for how well I plucked women to make sweet, luscious and dulcet sounds shiver out of their throats.’

The young Gael paused, and looked at the elder, then continued, still in an uninterested monotone, ‘Here, there is some laughter, which I will not translate. I objected to the name for I thought my tongue work more similar to the skilled rapid double time clicking of a player on a bodhrán, playing on the surface of things as I did with my tongue, rather than plucking at them or their interiors. But names are earned and then given, but they are not, misfortunately, sensible.’

The young translator finished his spiel, and there was some silence; Conn was very confused.

‘Well?’ the younger Gael said.

‘You did all that when you were nine?’ Conn ventured.

The boy translated, and Very Delicious Harp became visibly shocked, taking a step back and letting out a long, shouting tirade, which woke up the lambs under the younger Gael’s arms.

‘You are nine?’ the younger said, in an unhurried manner quite distinct in tone from that which Very Delicious Harp had used. ‘This is said with great shock that I shall not conduit in my translation. You Normans age terribly, like bacon cracked over fires. I thought you twelve. No, you are too young to protect a little flock such as this from mighty men such as me, and the us that me entails, but us Gaels are fond of children because they often turn into adults, though most of your kind turn into Norman adults, which is disagreeable and troublesome, but still though you are too young to protect flocks, you are at a reasonable enough age to strike bargains, so let us do so. The proposition is thus: offer me a delicate lamb, of the greatest succulence and gaminess every feast day, and I will hunt more worthy prey from a different flock, one of greater risk, for my joy will be greater with that; for we are a hurdy-gurdy sort, who far prefer banditry and chasing to easy meat.’

‘When do Gaels feast?’ Conn asked.